The Great Jukebox War of 2019!

Who wants to hear a story?

Good, because I was going to tell it whether you wanted to hear it or not!

It was the fall of 2019, back when the world was a simpler place. Beer was cold, bars stayed open as late as God intended, and nobody had ever heard the phrase “social distancing.” But for some reason, everyone still wanted me to stay six feet away from them most of the time.

This story, like all good stories, took place at Yellowz Bar and Grill. Also like all good stories, this story involved beer and music.

I had just met up with Slim, Edwin, Alex, and our longtime friend Wally.

You may be wondering who Wally is, since I’ve never mentioned him before.

So we were sitting at our usual table near the jukebox, drinking our usual troubles away. Edwin had his usual Gin ’n Goose, Alex was drinking his usual whiskey, Slim had his usual fruity beer he insisted wasn’t fruity, and Wally was also there (as usual).

As for me, I was enjoying a tall frosty mug of nature’s medicine, good ol’ Yuengling Lager.

Hey Yuengling, I’m still waiting for you guys to sponsor me! Sponsorships mean free beer, right?

The first few rounds passed peacefully. In hindsight, this should have worried everyone, because peace never lasted long when Edwin and I were in the same building! Eventually my drink began working its magic, and I developed what doctors call music ADHD.

Actually, I don’t think doctors call it that. They probably have some technical medical term for it, like Attention Deficit Rock Disorder. Whatever it was, I had it bad.

One minute I wanted to hear AC/DC. Then Billy Joel. Then Johnny Cash. Then DMX. Then Dolly Parton. Then the theme from Mortal Kombat. As I once told my old friend Peter (who’s been missing since November of 2017), my musical tastes were a finely prepared buffet. Edwin agreed with this, making sure to add “Assuming somebody preparing a buffet threw ribs, spaghetti, sushi, and a bowl of Cap’n Crunch onto the same plate!” I thought Edwin was supposed to be the best chef in Philly, and here he was talking about throwing ribs, spaghetti, sushi, and Cap’n Crunch onto the same plate. Why would anybody even do that?

Where was I?

Oh yeah, Yellowz.

I wanted to hear some music, so I walked over to the jukebox and stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into it.

“Frosty,” Slim said, “do you really need twenty dollars’ worth of music?”

Did Michelangelo need an entire ceiling?

I began selecting songs. “Thunderstruck” went first, followed by “Piano Man,” “Jolene,” “Party Up,” “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” “The Bad Touch,” “Sweet Caroline,” and the theme song from DuckTales.

Woo-oo!

I might have also queued up “Who Let the Dogs Out” three times. Not in a row, of course. I have standards, you know!

Our table was enjoying the musical journey, except for Alex, who asked why we were listening to the DuckTales theme in a bar. I told him it was one of the greatest compositions of the twentieth century, and he stopped arguing because he knew I was right.

Unfortunately, another group of patrons didn’t appreciate art.

There were six of them sitting on the other side of the bar, dressed like they had just come from some kind of office bowling league. One of the guys walked over to the jukebox and paid extra to jump ahead of my songs.

My Billy Joel suddenly stopped, replaced by some modern country song about trucks, dirt roads, beer, and women wearing cutoff jeans. I like all of those things individually, but this song didn’t have the integrity to pick one and stick with it.

“Hey!” I shouted. “There’s a line!”

The guy looked at me. “I paid for priority play.”

Priority play was a jukebox feature that allowed rich jerkwads like this guy to oppress poor working class mugs like me. For an extra dollar, somebody could skip ahead of every song already waiting.

I went back to the jukebox and paid to skip ahead of his song.

He skipped ahead of mine.

I skipped ahead of his.

He skipped ahead again.

Soon the two of us were standing on opposite sides of the jukebox feeding it money like divorced parents trying to win a child’s affection.

“Stop skipping my songs!” I yelled.

“Stop playing garbage!” he yelled back.

Garbage? I hadn’t even queued Garbage!

That gave me an idea, so I added “Stupid Girl.”

Things escalated from there. His group played five straight songs by Luke Bryan. I responded with Limp Bizkit. They put on Florida Georgia Line. I answered with Slayer. They selected “Friends in Low Places,” and I countered with “Barbie Girl.”

At some point Wally went outside to make a phone call. He returned ten minutes later and informed us that it was chilly outside.

Thanks, Wally. You’re a REAL pal!

The jukebox battle continued until I ran out of singles. Edwin donated five dollars to the war effort, though he insisted that I play “It’s Raining Men.” Slim handed me another ten, but only after making me promise to play “Fat Bottomed Girls,” which he said was his personal anthem.

Alex refused to contribute because he said the entire argument was stupid, and our jukebox money was going “straight to the coffers of the Worthington family.” I don’t know why Alex is always talking about this Worthington guy, but if his whole family has a cough then maybe they should go see a doctor.

The battle was getting intense. More importantly, it was getting expensive. I needed something to clinch the win before I blew all my beer money.

I knew Barty kept a jukebox remote behind the bar. With that remote, he could skip songs without paying. It was the nuclear weapon of jukebox warfare, and I intended to get my hands on it.

I waited until Barty turned around, then casually lifted one leg over the bar.

“Frosty,” he said without looking at me.

I froze.

“Get your leg off my bar.”

“I dropped something.”

“You didn’t drop anything.”

“My dignity?”

“You lost that years ago. Sit the hell down before I throw you out.”

It was then that I made a heroic dash behind the bar, grabbing the remote, and liberating the jukebox from tyranny.

Or DID I?

No, I decided not to.

Barty sounded very serious, and I had only finished half my beer.

When I returned to the table, Edwin announced that diplomacy had failed. I didn’t remember us trying diplomacy, unless threatening to shove somebody’s Luke Bryan CD up his ass counted. Edwin stood on his chair and pointed toward the enemy table.

“There’s only one way to settle this!” he shouted.

The entire bar went quiet.

“Dance-off!”

Edwin jumped down and began stretching. He had once been a Chippendale’s dancer, so he took dance-based conflict resolution very seriously.

The other group refused. Instead, one of them walked over and decked Edwin right in his face.

That was how the Great Jukebox War became the Great Jukebox Bar Fight.

Things kicked off fast. Alex leapt into action with a spinning roundhouse kick that sent one man flying across the bar. It was like watching Walker, Texas Ranger, except Alex wasn’t Chuck Norris and we weren’t in Texas. Although Alex is from Texas, so I guess that explains things.

Slim charged toward the enemy table, only to be intercepted by three large Samoan men, all named Carlito. I don’t know why they were all named Carlito. I don’t even know whether Carlito is a Samoan name. But there were three of them, they were all enormous, and Barty called them “the Carlitos.” The Carlitos surrounded Slim and began using sumo wrestling moves. One slapped him across the chest while another grabbed him around the waist. The third Carlito appeared to be waiting for his turn, which I appreciated. Even in a bar fight, manners mattered.

Edwin started doing capybara (You mean capoeira… ~AJ).

Capybara is a form of Australian (Actually, it’s- oh you know what, just forget it. ~AJ) karate where you dance around before kicking somebody. Edwin spun across the floor on his hands, knocking drinks from tables and kicking one of the bowling-league guys in the jaw.

People were flying through the air. One guy backflipped off the bar like a ninja. Another ran along the wall before launching himself feet-first into a table. Somebody broke a pool cue over a Carlito, which only made him stronger.

Wally ducked underneath the table and held onto everybody’s jackets so they wouldn’t get stolen.

Thanks again, Wally.

I grabbed a barstool and whacked somebody upside the head with it. He flipped backward and crashed through a decorative wall made entirely of beer bottles.

At that exact moment, “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting” by Elton John began playing.

It was Wednesday, but the jukebox didn’t know that.

Now, I should probably admit that I exaggerated part of this story.

I didn’t actually hit anybody with a barstool. Those things were bolted to the floor. Everything else happened exactly as described though. I just get so carried away with myself sometimes, you know?

The fight continued spreading until practically everyone in Yellowz was involved. Slim finally escaped the Carlitos by rolling between their legs. Edwin kept doing capybara. Alex stood on the pool table throwing roundhouse kicks at anybody who came close. Barty had taken cover behind the bar and was yelling about lawsuits.

I tried to restore order by throwing a glass at one of the bowling-league guys.

Before you judge me, the glass was empty. I would never throw a full beer. That would be alcohol abuse.

Unfortunately, my aim had been affected by several hours of drinking, moving targets, and Elton John. The glass missed the guy completely and smashed directly into the jukebox screen.

The music stopped.

The screen flickered once and went black.

Everybody froze.

Slim looked at the shattered jukebox and shook his head.

“Well,” he said, “I guess we finally broke the record.”

By the time the police arrived, Yellowz looked like it had been hit by a hurricane. Tables were broken, windows were shattered, the pool table was split down the middle, and somebody had driven a motorcycle through the front door. I don’t remember there being a motorcycle inside during the fight, but there was definitely one afterward.

The greatest casualty of the Great Jukebox War wasn’t the jukebox, Slim’s ribs, or Edwin’s dignity. It was Yellowz itself. According to Barty, the damages came close to $100,000.

He sat on the curb outside the ruined bar with his head in his hands.

“I’m finished,” he said. “There’s no way I can afford to fix this.”

I felt bad. Not responsible, but bad.

Then I remembered that I knew a guy who knew guys. So I pulled out my phone and called AJ.

“AJ,” I said, “I need an AJnet favor.”

There was a long silence.

“What did you do?”

Why did everyone always assume I had done something?

I explained the situation, leaving out the part where I broke the jukebox because it didn’t seem relevant. AJ sighed, told me not to touch anything else, and hung up.

A few weeks later, a television crew arrived at Yellowz. Some loud bald guy stormed through the front door, shouted at Barty for several hours, and started pointing out everything that was wrong with the place. Apparently the sticky floors, broken bathroom lock, and deep fryer that occasionally caught fire were all “health hazards.” I had always thought they gave Yellowz character.

The bald guy spent the next several days ripping the bar apart while cameras followed him around. New lights went up, the kitchen was rebuilt, and the shattered jukebox was replaced with a fancy digital model protected by what appeared to be bulletproof glass. Barty even received a new sign, although the place was still called Yellowz because changing the name would have required everyone to learn something new.

The worst part was, I wasn’t even allowed inside while they were filming. Nobody actually told me this directly. Every time I approached the front door, two large production assistants stepped in front of it and asked me to leave. I spent most of the week watching from across the street with a six-pack and offering helpful suggestions whenever somebody came outside.

Those jerks didn’t use any of them!

To this day, I don’t know how AJ arranged the whole thing. I called him, asked for an AJnet favor, and a few weeks later a bald man was screaming at Barty while rebuilding the bar. Maybe AJ knew the guy. Maybe AJ owned the television network. Maybe AJ was the bald guy wearing some kind of realistic mask.

It didn’t really matter. The important thing was that Yellowz reopened.

At the grand reopening, Barty gathered me, Slim, Edwin, and Alex near the entrance. He explained that we were only being allowed back because the television people wanted footage of the bar’s regular customers enjoying the renovations. He also made us sign several documents promising that we wouldn’t fight, break anything, climb behind the bar, or interfere with the jukebox

Barty then pointed toward the new jukebox. A small metal plaque had been bolted underneath the screen.

It read:

FROSTY MUGG IS NOT ALLOWED TO SELECT MUSIC.

I couldn’t believe it. After everything I had done to save Yellowz, this was the thanks I received?

I reached into my wallet, pulled out twenty dollars, and took one step toward the jukebox.

Barty raised the remote.

I stopped.

The Great Jukebox War was finally over, and Barty had won the arms race.

Slim looked at the sign and shook his head.

“I guess you’ve been barred from the charts.”

It was somehow an even worse pun than the one he made during the fight.

I ordered another beer and decided to let it go. Yellowz was back, the jukebox was working, and none of us were permanently banned. In the end, that was all that mattered.

Well, that and the fact that the new jukebox had an app.

Hey, Barty never said I couldn’t select music from my phone!

The moral of the story is that music should bring people together instead of tearing them apart.

Unless somebody skips Billy Joel. Then it’s war.

Frosty Mugg

Frosty is a reckless idiot, a drunk bastard, and a walking bad decision. When he’s not on a bar stool, he’s usually writing half-cocked articles or making things worse for everyone involved. Due to a major international incident, he is legally required to remain intoxicated at all times.

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